


the rewards of being known (biblically)

by FlipSpring



Series: entangleverse [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is a bastard, Body Swap, Nonbinary Warlock Dowling, Other, Rated T for:, Soul Bond, also featuring:, by which i mean good puns ACTUALLY, chase scene, copious cussing, drug mention, its crackfic all the way down, just a little weird metaphysical trueform shit, low key gender shit, minor fridge horror inherent to Soul Bonding, punching and kicking, sex cult mention, various bad puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 10:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20526407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlipSpring/pseuds/FlipSpring
Summary: "Going to take out all your grand frustration on me, are you?" Aziraphale asked, unimpressed, "Rather petty, really. You ought to go ask God what They think of the matter. Or perhaps consult the Great Plan, hm? In the meantime, if you could please leave us the fuck alone. Pardon my language."*#that feeling when five years after the Aren'tageddon you do the metaphysical tango with your SO and then suddenly your bosses are all up in your business again FOR SOME REASON#gender is just an excuse for extra paperwork





	the rewards of being known (biblically)

**Author's Note:**

> this is a sequel but can stand by itself, there's enough context provided
> 
> but if you’re here looking for low-key metaphysical soul-bond Fuckin’, you should go to part 1 of this verse. this one is more about the after-effects of that, which are FunnyTM
> 
> canon-adjacent to both book & show cuz ive never given 1 fuck in my life

Crowley watched the phone. The phone, having no eyes, did not physically watch him back. Still, in every level _but_ the physical, the phone glared at Crowley accusingly. Judgmentally.

"If you've got something to say," Crowley told the phone, "Then fucking say it."

The phone said nothing.

Crowley sniffed at the phone in disdain. He stood, absently balled up Aziraphale's fashion-atrocity of a jacket, and then paused, and carefully un-balled it. A coat-hanger found its way into the shoulders of Aziraphale's coat, and he left it hanging carefully on the back of his desk chair.

He went into the kitchen, and filled the electric kettle with water. He leaned against the granite counter, waiting for the water to boil, and tugged Aziraphale's bowtie free from his neck. He caught his own eye in the glass reflection of himself in the front of a kitchen cabinet. It was a reflection of himself wearing Aziraphale's body, and his own true face underlaid it, scaled and slitted. He flicked his tongue, idly, and in the reflection it came out slender and forked, when in physical actuality it came out wide and blunted.

The kettle started to whine.

Crowley poured out a cup of steaming water, and dipped a bag of black tea.

The intercom buzzed.

"Here we go," he said. Five years. Five years after the Apocollapse, not a single peep from Hell or Heaven. And then Aziraphale comes to visit, all _oh, tickety-boo dear, let's try enfolding, what's the harm, nobody cares anymore._ And then they _do it,_ and then all of a sudden everybody and their boss is on the phone and knocking his door down, _apparently._ And he's all out of holy water. And Aziraphale's gone and left him to deal with this all by himself.

He pointed at the intercom. The button pressed itself.

"I don't take walk-ins!" Crowley yelled, reaching for the sugar bowl. "If you want to murder me you've got to make an appointment like everybody else!"

The intercom crackled. And then a voice came through, distorted and barely comprehensible and just slightly American.

"Um. I'm sorry. But I'm looking for Evelyn Ashtoreth? Perhaps I have the wrong address."

Crowley froze. The tenth sugar cube dropped from his hand, missed the cup of tea below it, and skittered away to freedom behind the stove.

He strode over to the intercom, and held down the button again with his thumb. "Who is this?"

"Uh, it's Warlock. Warlock Dowling."

That. That was just. That was just typical, wasn't it? Why was life like this? A whole century could go by where absolutely fuck-all transpired, and then in the space of no time at all you'd be bombarded with seventy-million different kinds of transpirations all at once.

“Come on up, Warlock." 

He went back over to the kitchen counter and poured out another cup of tea.

The doorbell buzzed. Crowley snapped his fingers, and the door swung open. In walked Warlock Dowling.

Warlock appeared quite different than when Crowley had last seen him, eleven years old and hurling fistfuls of birthday cake. He was sixteen now, and looked like he'd gone through several consecutive growth spurts without taking in the necessary nutrients nor sleep. His attire consisted of dark-wash jeans, eyeliner, and a pair of mirrored sunglasses pushed up over his forehead.

“Sunglasses indoors?” Crowley called from the kitchen, “what are you, some kind of poser?”

Warlock jerked his head round and spotted Crowley leaning against the kitchen counter, delicately holding up a cup and saucer.

"You can have _one_ cup of tea," said Crowley, "And then I'll have to ask you to get a shove on. I'm expecting company. And not the pleasant kind."

Warlock hovered uneasily at the doorway. He was holding the door open, as though ready to make an escape in the event this apartment turned out to be a murder-hole. Or possibly even a sex dungeon.

"You can sit, if you want," said Crowley, gesturing at the desk and chair, and also the sofa. "As you can see. Open floorplan."

Warlock's eyes flicked over to the chair, then back to Crowley, then doubletook to the chair.

"That..." he said slowly, softly, "Is the ugliest goddamn chair I've ever seen."

Crowley scoffed, fully offended. He picked up his own cup of tea, sipped it, and walked the second cup over to Warlock, who appraised his approach warily. "Shows what poor taste you got. I didn't raise you like this." He paused, considered. "Or maybe I did actually."

He offered up the tea to Warlock. Warlock took it, a smirk twitching upon his lips. He let the door to the apartment swing shut behind him.

Crowley sipped his tea again, turned, strode over to his desk, which he leaned against.

"So, what brings you here? And how did you find me?"

"You are _not_ the Brother Francis I remember," said Warlock, following at a safe distance. "Did Nanny rub off on you? I _knew_ there was something between you two."

Crowley sucked air through his teeth, and stopped himself from making a joke about Nanny _rubbing off_ on him, and looked down at the body he was wearing. Right.

"Guh. Here'sss the thing, Your Lordship. I'm not much in the mood to do the whole cotton-over-the-eyes-of-humanity rigamarole right now. I've got a lot going on. A lot of work-related stress, interrelated with personal issue stress. So I'm going to clear up a few things for you, and I'm taking no questions, got it?"

Warlock looked at him, with the slightly contemptuous sort of apathetic interest only physically achievable by sixteen-year-old-mortals. He draped an arm around the back of Crowley's chair, sipping tea in anticipation.

Crowley gestured with one hand. "One. I'm a demon. Two. I was in fact your Nanny for several formative years in your childhood. Three. Yes, I am in fact borrowing Az, er, Brother Francis' body at the moment, we had a bit of mishap and I will not be going into details on that. Four, Brother Francis is an angel. Five- "

"What were an angel and a demon doing bumming about in our house then?" Warlock interrupted, in a tone that was a rather sarcastic farce of indulgence.

"I said no questions," said Crowley. "_Five,_ we thought you were the Antichrist, but turns out it was some other whelp, so we buggered off to go deal with the _actual_ Antichrist and avert Armageddon. Which we did, by the way. You're welcome."

"Uh-huh," said Warlock, grinning now. "Okay. Cool. Great. Y'all're exactly a batshit as I remember, which is like, incredibly validating."

Crowley stared at the phone on the desk. The phone did not stare back at him (physically).

"Warlock," he said heavily, "I"m having _such_ a day." He took another, mournful sip of tea. Warlock cautiously took another sip of his own tea.

"Yes, drink that faster," said Crowley, "I want you to know that I only gave that to you to be polite - " he broke off. A terrible thought had just occurred to him. "Maybe he _did_ rub off on me. Oh. Fuck."

He looked down at his hand, squinted. The true form of himself looked mostly the same as it always did. Mostly. He seemed to glimmer brighter, in places. There were more teeth, possibly. He closed a fist, and an ethereal jaw closed in conjunction with his knuckles.

"He _did_ rub off on me," Crowley whispered, and tried to figure out if this was a good reason to panic or not. Probably yes. "Bastard."

"Look," said Warlock good-naturedly, "Whatever you're on right now, I'd love to get a hit of it. But it would get in the way of my five-year plan to trip _that_ hard. So." Warlock shrugged. Crowley looked back up at him. Warlock was staring off into the middle-distance, looking wistfully contemplative, like the soulful protagonist of a coming-of-age teen novella or some shit.

"I guess I came here because - "

The doorbell buzzed.

Crowley groaned, and set down his cup of tea. "Oh _here_ we fucking go - "

The door slammed open, and Dagon stepped through, closely followed by Hastur and Legion.

Warlock turned, staring curiously back at the gaggle of shoddily-dressed oddballs.

"Lord Beelzebub summons you," said Dagon, icily, "You really stepped in shite this time, Crowley. Ze's absolutely furious."

"That's right," snarled Hastur.

"Guys, it's not a good time. I've got a guest, look." He pointed at Warlock.

Warlock looked back at Crowley. "Dude, _please_ tell me this is some kind of weird LARP thing and not a sex cult."

A ponderous silence fell over the scene.

"Definitely not a sex cult," said Crowley finally.

"Not my department," said Dagon, peeling her lips back from her teeth. "Not my jurisdiction _at all."_

"Oh, good," said Warlock, with sincere relief. "I was starting to get uncomfortable. Like. I _am_ a minor, you know."

Another ponderous silence fell over the scene.

Crowley gathered every scrap of nerve and bravado to his name and hissed, in a voice that mostly succeeded at not sounding absolutely petrified. "Tea, anyone? Or do I need to get the Holy Water back out? Because I _will_ get the Holy Water back out."

"No need for that," said Dagon, imperiously. "Fetch the ... tea."

*

"So of course my dad thinks I should be aiming to be a polisci major," said Warlock, who was pacing back and forth in front of an extra-wide couch, which was currently seating a gaggle of demons. (Legion spilled over the edge and onto the floor, their many bodies infinite and identical).

"But how am I supposed to decide my whole life already? I don't know what I want to be when I grow up! I barely know what I want to be right now."

"What's going on?" Hastur asked, blankly, clutching a floral-patterned teacup with little smiling ladybugs painted on.

"Shut up, Hastur," said Dagon. "Warlock, you're, what, sixteen. You're barely older than my toenail clippings, and your short mortal life doesn't matter for shit. Tell your father to fuck himself."

Crowley could not believe that this was happening, but he wasn’t going to complain. How has this turned into a therapeutic session for Warlock Dowling, Ain'tichrist, set up before a jury of demons suddenly thirsting for his immortal soul? It was a very good soul, but still.

"On the contrary," said Crowley, who was sitting in his desk chair (a safe-ish distance from the demon-infested couch), "Warlock, your short mortal life has already mattered quite a lot more than average. But I agree with Dagon about telling your dad to go fuck himself."

"It's not like he even really cares about me," Warlock complained, "he just wants to be able to relive his glory days through me, and brag about me to his work mates or whatever."

Crowley was fiddling with Aziraphale's pockets, and trying not to make eye contact with Hastur, who was glaring daggers, dirks, and deringers at him. He really wanted his sunglasses back, but Aziraphale had gone and stolen them, along with the rest of his body.

He found a folded-up slip of paper in one pocket, and pulled it out. It had a phone number and address printed on it in hurried, slanted text, and the name _Anathema Device._

He found Aziraphale's mobile phone in the coat hanging from the desk chair, and beeped a quick message to Anathema's number.

_Hi Anathema._  
_This is Crowley._  
_Demons are here._  
_Fuck. Help._  


"And I'm like... hey." Warlock stopped pacing. "Can I talk to you guys about gender for a second?"

"Gender?" sneered Hastur, "How very mortal."

"Okay," said Warlock, "And I can't believe I'm just going to tell this to a bunch of weirdo adults I've never met before, but I've been worrying for a while that I might not actually be a boy really - "

Crowley then found the text exchange Aziraphale had with himself. He beeped out a message to CROWLEY's number. Aziraphale had his body, and by extension, his mobile.

_Aziraphale I'm approximately_  
_two microseconds away_  
_from a clinical panic attack_  
_where are you?_

He then remembered that his own mobile had a passcode lock on it, which Aziraphale probably didn't know. Crowley had been the one to help popularize passcode locks for cell phones. They sowed distrust and enabled all sorts of tomfoolery.

"Fuck," he muttered to himself.

"Gender is a sociopolitical holdover marginally rooted ancient cultural and biological mores," Dagon was saying, "And it's stupid. It's just an excuse for additional paperwork, and you can take that from me. Paperwork _is_ my department."

"I'm bored to tears right now," said Hastur, who had his arms spread over the back of the couch, his head lolling back. "Oh wait. I don't cry. I'm just bored. Dagon, let's just drag them both to hell and be done with it."

Crowley sank deeper into his desk chair, and tried not to think about how he was probably going to die at the end of this predicament.

Warlock let out a heavy breath, and started pacing again. "I just feel so _trapped_ by all of this. It's so confusing."

"Have you tried pronouns?" asked two of Legion’s bodies, in perfect synchronization, "We've heard those are popular with your kind."

"I've heard murder is popular," said Hastur. "And arson. Have you tried those?"

A text arrived in Aziraphale's phone with a loud _Beep._ Three of Legion's bodies looked interestedly in Crowley's direction. He hastily set the phone to silent, and opened up the text from Anathema.

_I can ask Adam for a reset_  
_when I see him again_  
_but don't know when that might be_  


Crowley texted back.

_Reset?_

"It's rude to fidget while we're having a conversation with this young person, _Crowley,"_ snapped Dagon, and Aziraphale's cellphone flew out of Crowley's hands and into Dagon's grip.

Warlock stopped monologuing about gender, and economics, and oppression. His gaze swiveled back and forth between Crowley and Dagon. Dagon crushed the cell phone in her claws, and the twisted plastic remnants burst into flame.

"How'd you do that?" Warlock asked.

"Never you mind," said Dagon, her voice sonorous and smooth, "Now, what were you sayin' about gender as a marketing strategy, hm?"

Warlock's gaze went glassy-eyed and unfocused. "Um."

"Hey!" Crowley snapped. Anger had leaped, unbidden, into his heart. "You'll fry his brain doing that!"

Warlock blinked, and shook his head jerkily. His mirrored sunglasses wobbled dangerously atop his head. 

"He won't be needing a brain, where he's going," Dagon grinned. "Do you, honey?"

Warlock's eyes were wide, a deer caught in headlights. "What?"

Crowley stood, and stepped firmly between Warlock and the couch-demons. "You know what. Show's over. Get the Hell out of my apartment."

Dagon's face was warping, snarling, sharklike. The scales on her cheekbones bristled, gleamed. Her true-form clouded around her, serrated, whirling. "I'll have this one for my collection. The antichrist that might have been? That's a fun one for the set."

"No," Crowley hissed. He could feel his tongue forking in his mouth. "No, you _absolutely_ won't."

One of Legion's bodies spoke up. "Can I have another cup of tea, please?"

Something squeezed Crowley's elbow, sharply. Warlock was throttling his arm in a death-grip.

"What's _happening?"_ he whispered.

Crowley pushed the fragile human youth behind him, stepping back away from the couch, guiding them slowly round the apartment and towards the far wall. Dagon was on her feet, matching them move for move, step for step, hellfire flickering over her fists. Hastur was backing her, eyes black, grinning with far too many teeth.

A couple of Legion's bodies fiddled with the tea-kettle. They both looked perplexed.

"Warlock," Crowley said softly, and backed them both against one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. He pulled the child to his side. Warlock was nearly taller than him now, all shivering bones and skin. "Hold on to me, and don't let go."

"If you've put something in my tea, I'm gonna sue," Warlock whispered back, staring so widely at the approaching demons that his eyes threatened to plop right out of his skull, "This is such a bad trip."

"When did you become such an _American?"_ Crowley balled one hand into a fist, and swung it back, smashing the window. The sound of it was a thousand shards, shattering.

Crowley snapped his wings open.

Warlock screamed.

They fell.

*

"All I'm saying is," Aziraphale was saying, "You can't do fuck-all about it. Oh, goodness, please do excuse my language, it's been rather getting away from me this morning, likely an aftereffect of the enfolding. And yes, I have enfolded with... hold on - "

He pulled Crowley's cell phone out of his pocket. A text message had appeared on the glossy screen.

_Aziraphale I'm approximately..._

"Approximately what?" Aziraphale muttered to himself, and tried to open the rest of the message. He was met with a lock-screen.

"Oh, fuck this absolute _hogshit,"_ he exclaimed, and then looked up at Michael. "Again, please excuse my language."

Michael looked as though she were sucking on a particularly sour citrine. "It was quite gracious of us to let slide your treasonous behavior at Armageddon, but it's quite another thing entirely if you're going to continue to cavort about with that demon of yours against the natural order of things - "

Aziraphale was not listening. "Send text," he said to the phone. The phone did not respond.

"Sent text to Crowley," he said. "Shoot, I mean, send text to Aziraphale."

The phone still did not respond.

Now Michael was looking as though she were attempting to gnaw through a particularly overcooked slab of steak. "Aziraphale. Are you listening?"

"Gracious of you, et cetera, et cetera," said Aziraphale, distractedly, "If I may ask for some additional grace of yours, Michael, please do spare me the bullshit. Pardon my language. Either you ignored us for the past five years because you wanted to wash your hands of the whole affair, or you ignored us because our involvement in the failed Armageddon slipped your collective minds. Based on your frankly _very rude_ treatment of me this morning, I'm actually inclined to believe it's the latter."

Michael's face was pinched.

"Aziraphale," she said, "There _will_ be a reckoning for your crimes - "

"Going to take out all your grand frustration on me, are you?" Aziraphale asked, unimpressed, "Rather petty, really. You ought to go ask God what They think of the matter. Or perhaps consult the Great Plan, hm? In the meantime, if you could please leave us the fuck alone. Pardon my language."

He worked Crowley's phone back into one of Crowley's ridiculously small pockets, and left Michael standing alone in the open halls of Heaven.

*

Crowley's flat was a mess. There were sludgy footprints criss-crossing all over the floor. An electric teakettle lay smashed upon the stove. The desk and chair were overturned, the latter smoldering slightly. Half of the sofa was coated in yet more sludge. One of the floor-to-ceiling windows on the far wall was shattered, little beads of greenish glass scattered on the floor like jewels.

A single demon skulked, sludgily, by the window. They perked up at Aziraphale's entrance.

"Oh, hullo Crowley," they said, beaming. Their eyes were empty pits. "Wait. You look different."

"I'm not Crowley," said Aziraphale.

"Oh," said the demon, gloomily, and slouched back down to the floor, "Figures."

"Where is he?" Aziraphale demanded. He crossed the apartment, glass crunching under his feet as he stood by the shattered window. The city beeped and grumbled below, but there was no sign of Crowley.

"Went out the window. The rest of us went after him, didn't we?" The demon gazed blankly upwards, its empty eye-sockets smoking faintly, "We're all over town, looking for him. Beelzebub is very angry."

A wave of liquid fear crashed over Aziraphale, dragging him under. He fought it down, fought to get his head above the water-line of terror. He took a deep breath, almost gasping.

Aziraphale wasn't typically one for fear, nor anxiety. This could be a holdover from enfolding with Crowley, like the swearing. Or he was still resonating with Crowley, even now, not fully disentangled. They'd most likely never be fully un-entangled again, not unless they deliberately pulled away from each other, spent centuries and millennia apart, redefining themselves strictly on their own terms, as their own persons.

But even then.

Aziraphale looked down at his hands, at the hungering light of his true self, saw the shape of it slithering, saw the outlines of it just slightly serpentine.

Even then, even if they pulled completely apart, once again entirely themselves, entirely disconnected, they'd be marked upon one another. Even then, the fingerprints of Crowley's influence on Aziraphale would remain upon him and within him, tucked into his memories and mannerisms. That's what entanglement was, after all. You didn't have to actually perform an enfolding to get there. You just had to be significant to each other.

Most angels and demons never entangled at all. You might gain power through it, of course. But you might also gain weakness. The strength of union came at the expense of subsumation. Who you are becomes consumed. Destroyed, even, in a certain sort of way.

But it had felt so natural to do it with Crowley.

Aziraphale looked at the demon on the floor, their empty eyes, their sludgy countenance.

"I think I've heard of you," said Aziraphale, "Are you Legion?"

"Yeah, that's me!" said the demon.

"How many individuals did you used to be?" Aziraphale asked.

"Ohhhhh. Hmmm. Oof. We've lost count. Why? Would you like to join us?"

"I think I'll pass, thank you kindly."

Legion was looking up at him now, head tilted to the side, a grin on their face. Sludge oozed out from between their teeth. They sniffed the air. "Hm. You smell nice. You're an angel aren't you? Sort of."

"Yes, sort of," Aziraphale agreed.

"We've never enfolded an angel before," Legion said softly, and rose to their feet, "I think we might like to try it."

"Um, no," said Aziraphale, taking a step back. Legion took a step forward.

"_You_ might like it," said the demon.

Aziraphale considered this, and then said, observantly, "Oh. Fuck."

He turned and ran. Legion leaped after him.

Aziraphale sprinted down the stairwell, moving mostly by instinct. He tried to focus, to reach into the part of him where Crowley lived, tried to feel out where Crowley might be, but Legion slavering at his heels had him distracted.

He burst out onto the city street and darted across the road, narrowly avoiding being flattened by a bus. He moved hurriedly down the sidewalk, checking frequently over his shoulder. Legion was still on the other side of the street, sniffing at the air, teeth bared in a snarl.

Aziraphale ducked into a scented candle store, and went out the back door, and kept going down the alleyway.

He closed his eyes, reached into himself. Reached into themselves. "Come on, Crowley," he whispered, heart thudding in his throat. "Where are you?" Fear clawed at his spine, and he felt enclosed, trapped, stacks upon stacks of books pressing in...

He opened his eyes, and gathered up his wits, and teleported himself into his bookstore.

He landed, quite winded, and wobbling a little on the dimensional level. Teleportation had never been his strong suit.

"Aziraphale! Look ou - "

Aziraphale ducked before he even knew why he was ducking. And then he ducked again, as Dagon slashed at the air where his head had been a second earlier. He backed up a step, turning on the balls of his feet as he went, and kicked Dagon squarely in the chest. The air came out of her with a _squawk,_ and she went flying into a bookshelf. Unfortunately, Aziraphale had overbalanced, and fell over backwards, knocking over a spindly end-table of books as he went.

"Shit!" he exclaimed, and then he was being hauled to his feet by Crowley and a gangly human teenager.

The three of them backed up against another bookshelf. Crowley was wielding an encyclopedia. The teenager was wielding a broken lamp.

"You ought to put on some weight," Aziraphale accused, wincing and clutching at his side, "Look at me. A stiff breeze would knock you over, for fucks sake."

"You ought to refresh your fucking wards from time to time," Crowley fired back, "In case you hadn't noticed, your bookstore is hotbed of demonic activity right now."

"Well you're a demon too, if you haven't forgotten!"

"If you weren't such a lazy ass you'd write in an exception for me, idiot!" Crowley retorted. _"MOVE!"_

He shoved Aziraphale, and a ball of fire shot past them, exploding against a bookshelf.

Aziraphale rounded on the perpetrator of the fireball. Hastur was standing in the middle of the shop, both arms wreathed in flame.

Aziraphale stepped forward, boiling with holy fury. "DON'T - " he grabbed an iron bookend off the nearest shelf, " - BURN - " he hurled the bookend at Hastur, " - MY BOOKS!"

The bookend struck Hastur full in the temple with an audible, resonant _bong._ Hastur's head was knocked back, and his body crumpled to the floor.

"Jesus, Nanny." The human teen sounded impressed.

"I think you discorporated him with that blow," said Crowley, craning his neck. "Nice aim, Aziraphale."

"What is this child doing here?" Aziraphale demanded.

Crowley raised his eyebrows. "You don't recognize - ? Some fairy godparent you are. It's Warlock."

"Warlock? Dowling? What in the fuck is _he_ doing here?"

Warlock set the lamp down carefully on the floor, and straightened up. "Actually - um. So, uh, I've been thinking. I think I'd like to start going by, uh, they/them pronouns?"

"Apologies, my dear," Aziraphale said, still glaring at Crowley, "What in the fuck are _they_ doing here?"

Warlock beamed.

Something rumbled. The sunlight outside the bookstore was darkening. Dark sludge began seeping under the front door, the windows.

"Oh, Hell," Crowley swore, "Aziraphale, did you piss off _Legion?"_

"I may have given them the wrong impression," Aziraphale admitted, "I think they want to enfold me - "

_"L e g i o n ?"_ Crowley's voice pitched up, nearly cracking, "Are you _serious?_ We're about to get thoroughly _fucked_ in absolutely every sense of the word, you do realize that right?"

"I thought you said this wasn't a sex cult," Warlock said, grumpily.

Aziraphale glanced at Warlock, alarmed, then back to Crowley. "What the fuck, Crowley."

Crowley pointed at Aziraphale accusingly, "Oh no, no-no-no _no_ you don't! I'm the only one who gets to say _what-the-fuck_ anymore, under these present fucking circumstances. You proposed _Legion!"_

"I didn't _propose_ \- "

Dagon groaned, from the floor, and dragged herself, rocking, to her feet. She clutched at her chest, and spat bloody phlegm on the floor. Behind her, around her, the sludge was forming into humanoid bodies, each one identical, each one grinning, with empty, smoldering eyes. They advanced, as one.

Aziraphale held his hands up.

"If you _wouldn't mind!"_ he exclaimed, "Please! Hold on for one moment!"

Miraculously, Dagon and Legion halted their advance.

"How long is one moment?" asked half of Legion's bodies, in perfect synch. "Is it over yet?"

"No. Not yet," said Aziraphale firmly, "So. I understand you're here to collect Crowley and take him to see Beelzebub."

Crowley shot an appalled look at Aziraphale. Aziraphale ignored it.

"That's right," snarled Dagon, and licked blood off her lips, "And I wouldn't be opposed to letting Legion feed on your feeble little self either, _angel."_

"Morsel!" chirped three of Legion's bodies, grinning widely.

"But what's this _about?_ Surely he gets to hear the reason for his summons," said Aziraphale.

"Erm," said Dagon. She suddenly looked uncomfortable, "Well..."

"Well?" Aziraphale demanded.

"TheresBeenReportsThatTheDemonCrowleyHasEntangledWithAnAngel," Dagon muttered.

"You mean how Legion's trying to do with me, right now?" Aziraphale asked.

Dagon glanced at one of Legion's bodies, glaring. Legion shrugged.

"So let me get this perfectly clear," said Aziraphale, "Are you saying that a pair of consenting celestial entities aren't allowed to - "

_"Aziraphale!"_ Crowley exclaimed, and covered his face with one hand. He was blushing vigorously. "Can we _not_ \- "

"So are you guys _sure_ this isn't a sex cult?" Warlock asked, "Like. Totally sure? I just want to check again. Also how long am I going to be high? Because I have a geometry exam tomorrow."

And then Aziraphale's cell phone rang. Well, Crowley's cell phone rang. Aziraphale tugged it out of his pocket. It was an unknown number.

"Just another moment, if you please," he said, raising a finger. Dagon exchanged a baffled look with Legion. Or rather she attempted to exchange a baffled look. Legion mostly just looked annoyed, and wasn't meeting her eye.

The phone pulled itself free of Aziraphale's fingers, and floated in front of him.

"Hey," said the voice on the phone, "This is Adam Young speaking."

"Oh thank God," said Aziraphale. "Hello Adam, I'm Aziraphale. I don't suppose you remember me and Crowley from the Armageddon five years ago - "

"Yeah yeah yeah, whatever," said Adam's voice from the hovering phone. "Anathema said some dumb friends of hers were in trouble. What's going on?"

"Erm..." said Aziraphale, and took a quick survey of the situation. The bookshop was a mess. A shelf was on fire, Hastur was discorporated on the floor, Dagon and Legion were teetering between confusion and bloodlust, and Crowley was making rude _Suck-It_-type hand gestures at them.

"Well - "

"Just kidding, I know what's going on, I've got like infinite magic powers or whatever," said Adam. He sounded bored, "So I'll wrap this up real quick for you, and you guys'll owe me, say, two hundred pounds and a cherry pie from the bakery down the street, deal?"

Aziraphale was completely taken aback. "What - "

"One hundred pounds, and two pies!" Crowley shouted at the phone.

Aziraphale goggled at Crowley. "Are you _haggling_ with him right now?"

Adam's voice on the phone barked a laugh. "Ha! That's good. That's a good one. But I need two hundred for my new sound set, so take it or leave it."

Crowley shrugged. "Was worth a shot. Two hundred it is."

"Ta," said Adam. The phone went dead, and fell out of the air. By the time it hit the floor, the demons had _popped_ out of existence, the shop had righted itself, and Hastur's bloody body had vanished.

The three of them were left standing in a quiet, peaceful bookstore.

Warlock glanced between the two of them.

"So... that was all real, huh?"

Crowley rounded on them. "Really? What finally convinced you?"

Warlock grimaced. "I didn't actually feel high during any of that. It just seemed way too weird to be real, and I didn't _want_ it to be real, yunno? Anyway, here, what's your number? I'll plug it into my phone, maybe we can hang out some other time when demons aren't trying to murder you. I've still got some questions about my whole weird childhood. And you guys seem chill."

"Crowley," said Aziraphale delightedly, "they think we're _chill!_"

"Go- Adam help us," said Crowley, flatly, and punched his number into Warlock's phone.

**Author's Note:**

> the premise for this fic is “hey, have you considered that the pedestalization/desperation for the intertwining of ones Self with another (romantically or otherwise), and universally prioritizing that desire over existing as a single and complete person is really disturbing actually? #im so fucking aromantic” 
> 
> I mean don’t get me wrong I love that Love Content. I’m just Sayin’TM
> 
> (can u believe i initially intended for this to be serious. i cant control my self)
> 
> thankss for reading
> 
> text me back xoxo gossip girl


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